


oh but the longing is terrible

by sunsmasher



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, F/F, Lesbian AU, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rule 63, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsmasher/pseuds/sunsmasher
Summary: Damia’s hand is on Laurence’s ankle, stroking up and down her leg. The woman on TV is saying something exceedingly comforting.Damia says, “Can I get you off?”





	oh but the longing is terrible

**Author's Note:**

> for phee, who has been doing all the heavy lifting on this AU for far too long.

It’s late, and there’s frost on the windows and dogs snoring down the hall when the steady press of Damia’s thumb to Laurence’s foot begins to falter.

Laurence looks up. Damia’s hair has escaped from its bun, as it always does, and curls around her face in great, looping tufts as she blinks and nods. The lights are dim, the TV low. Sue Perkins gestures brightly on screen.

“Bed?” Laurence asks. They’ve watched at least six hours of baking today. It wouldn’t be unreasonable.

Damia shakes her head, though. “Not yet,” she mumbles, almost childish as she unearths one hand from their mountain of quilts to rub at her eye. “I want to see who wins this season.”

“We’ve got at least another three episodes before the finale,” Laurence replies. And all the time in the world to waste tomorrow.

“No, this is important, I’m committed,” Damia says. Her skin is warm and dark in the low glow of their single lit lamp. “I can stay awake.”

“Can you.”

“Never doubt me,” Damia says, with a sleepy grin. Her thumb starts moving again, though any ache in Laurence’s foot is long since vanquished. “I once stayed up three days straight in uni to cram for finals.”

“And how did you do on those finals?”

“Bombed two, aced one. Not that it’s relevant.”

“Of course not,” Laurence replies. “She hasn’t let that chocolate cool, it’s going to destroy her Jaffa cakes.”

Damia and Laurence watch, rapt, as the baker’s face begins to crumple. Sue and Mel move in.

Damia’s hand is on Laurence’s ankle, stroking up and down her leg. Mel is saying something exceedingly comforting.

Damia says, “Can I get you off?”

The dull throb of arousal between Laurence's legs is instant. She presses her thighs together as subtly as she can, careful of Damia’s hand smoothing over the fine hair of her shins.

“Is that your plan to keep yourself awake?” she asks after a moment. Her phone blinks silently from the coffee table, a notification of some email she’ll care about in a week so.

Damia is smiling, her lips parted, her grin hitched in that crooked way that still throws fire on Laurence’s gut, even after years together. “Sure,” she says.

“And the sheer quantity of sex we’ve had today hasn’t been enough to satisfy?” Laurence digs her heel in a little, where it’s resting on Damia’s thigh. The hand on her foot squeezes in response.

In the afternoon, Damia had been on her hands and knees. Her hair had been coarse in Laurence’s fist, the straps of the harness tight across Laurence’s hips. She’d looked so beautiful afterwards, squirming and panting as Laurence pinched her dark nipples and held the vibrator to her swollen clit, forcing her through orgasm after orgasm until Damia had begged, teary-eyed, for relief.

“Nah,” Damia says, with her head leaned back against the couch cushions, her hands on Laurence. “But we don’t have to.”

She means it, of course. She always means it.

Laurence lets it sit another moment. She already knows her answer, her underwear is already damp, but she can appreciate the anticipation. She can enjoy the hot weight of Damia’s eyes on her.

“Alright,” she says, and Damia’s grin doubles in breadth, her cheeks flushed with the stretch. “Move over.”

There’s a few seconds of hurried movement, the throwing off of quilts as Damia spreads her legs and Laurence settles between them as quickly as she can before the cold digs in. She leans back against Damia’s breasts and stomach, caught between her muscled thighs.

Damia pulls the quilts back over them. Laurence is covered in fabric up to her chin, able to see nothing of her own body. There’s more shifting, a soft noise from Damia, and then her hands are on Laurence’s stomach, pushing up her tank top.

Laurence lets her head fall back. Damia’s hair spills over hers.

At first it’s quiet. They’re between episodes, the TV is muted, and Damia’s big hands stroke up and down Laurence’s abdomen, leaving this incessant, unruly need in their wake. Laurence finds herself sucking down great breaths of air after only a few passes, her ribs inflating like bellows under Damia’s hands.

“I could go slower, if you want,” Damia says in her ear, dragging her hands up again, so close to Laurence’s tingling breasts.

“That,” Laurence says, with arousal stopping her throat, “would not be wise.”

Damia’s chuckle is little more than a fond breath against her ear. Her hands press back down over Laurence’s thighs, her fingers spread wide and possessive. She hooks the waist of Laurence’s shorts with her thumb, grabbing her underwear with them. “Won’t need these,” she says, and Laurence arches herself up until Damia can pull them down her thighs and Laurence can kick until the whole mess dangles from one foot and is immediately forgotten.

Damia uses Laurence’s distracted flapping of ankles to pull her own tank top off. She is not, of course, wearing a bra. When Laurence leans back, her breasts are a very warm and distracting pillow. Laurence wants to turn and touch them, to put her mouth to them, to let them spill over her palm, but it isn’t the time. Her cunt is hot and throbbing and she feels exposed, even under the quilts, as Damia’s hands move down over her hips, digging into the crease of her thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” Damia says, her voice a rumble Laurence feels against her skin.

“You can’t see me,” Laurence replies, almost panting it. She’s finding it hard to concentrate, every nerve and vein alight a buzzing intensity that might burn her up before she ever gets a chance to come.

“I can feel you,” Damia says, and two fingers finally, _finally_ brush over Laurence’s clit. Laurence gasps immediately, jumping like she’s been shocked, only Damia’s other hand on her stomach keeping her pinned.

“Babe, you’re so wet,” Damia says as Laurence’s brain spills out her ears. Her fingers rub over Laurence’s slit, gently spreading her lips to press against her opening. “It’s all over my hand, you’ll soak the cushions.”

She says this so much, she talks about this so much. Since the first time they ever slept together, when Laurence could still pretend she wanted her dead. Damia had looked up from between her legs in a kind of wonder, her mouth shining all the way down to her chin.

_You’re so wet,_ she’d said then, like she says now. Amazed, she’d later mentioned, that a woman as restrained as Laurence could become so tangibly aroused.

There’s a hand at Laurence’s breast. Pinching, just slightly. Her eyes slam shut.

Fingers at her nipple, fingers moving so lightly over her clit. Her arousal is like an animal she must belt down before it tears her apart, and it stuns her a little, as it always does, that Damia can still do this to her. Even after years and years and an apartment and dogs and six separate fights about coffee creamer. Maybe she’ll get lucky, and never get used to it.

She has to swallow a moan, hot and frustrated, when the fingers on her clit move south again, stroking over her slit. She raises her hands up from Damia’s legs with an aim to make an issue of it, but then Damia’s hand leaves her entirely and Damia’s voice says in her ear, “Oh look, the show’s back.”

Laurence digs her nails in. “You can’t be _serious.”_

“That dude’s such a prick, honestly, I hope he gets eliminated this time.”

Laurence contemplates murder.

She isn’t even allowed the dignity of winding down is the thing. Even as Damia fiddles with the remote with one hand (which, god, that’s disgusting, they need to wipe that down later) she keeps Laurence on edge with the other. Gentle touches to her tits, achingly sensitive, drawing down to her bellybutton. Light fingers on her throat, then her jaw, then just for a moment at her lips, gone again before Laurence can think to bite her. Damia’s body surrounds her and Laurence curses every distracting inch of it as she closes her eyes and tries to breathe.

At some point, foggy and desperate, she realizes that she’s begun to whine. Damia shifts around her, muting the TV. She doesn’t know what they were talking about. “Do you remember last month when I was in your office?” Damia says in her ear.

Laurence doesn’t reply. She feels feverish, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her nails are about to draw blood, she’s sure, as Damia’s fingers drift over her twitching inner thighs.

“I was on my knees in front of your chair,” Damia says, “Eating you out. And then the phone rang.”

“You wouldn’t stop,” Laurence replies, ragged and breathless. “It was the damned—”

“The damned board of directors,” Damia says with a quiet laugh. “So you said. But you tasted so _good._ ”

Laurence jolts, back arching. Damia’s fingers press again to her clit, and Laurence makes a noise like she’s begging for it.

“You kept trying to push me off but I wanted you so bad, I wouldn’t give up. So you backed me under the desk and put a hand to my head and took the call.” She’s pinching again, almost twisting, Laurence’s nipple and her clit, no longer fucking around. “And when I tried to pull back and breathe you put your thighs on either side of my head and _held me there.”_

Laurence remembers it. She remembers the control it took to keep her voice even, listening to Nicaise lay out their latest circulation numbers. How enthusiastic Damia had been, using her lips, her tongue, her nose, fucking herself on her own fingers when Laurence pressed her mouth harder to her cunt.

“Should have tied your hands behind your back,” she gasps, feeling at last the stuttering motion of Damia’s hips behind her, Damia losing her own control. “Should never have let you get yourself off before you were done servicing me.”

Damia groans and Laurence takes her satisfaction from that, even as Damia’s fingers at her clit redouble their effort, slick with Laurence’s own wetness, sending pleasure  down every nerve.

“I wish you had,” Damia says, with the truth of it rattling in her voice. “I wish you’d tied me up and kept me there all day, even when Nicaise came in, even when you had meetings. Giving you pleasure, hour after hour.”

“Exhibitionist,” Laurence bites back, smiling, with her hips bucking against Damia’s hand.

“Always. Wanna make you feel good, want the world to see what you do to me. Babe, can I— can I put my fingers in you—”

Always asks that, too. And some small part of Laurence, even when she’s begging for it, stays stupidly, profoundly grateful. “Yes,” she says, “Damia—”

She’s so close already, when she comes— with Damia’s two fingers thrusting inside her, her walls clenching around them, Damia’s other hand still working her clit— it feels like relief. Like a mountain climbed and descended, the race entirely run. Damia works her through it, with her fingers, with her voice in Laurence’s ear, and Laurence, slowly, shiveringly, comes down.

She opens her eyes. A slightly blurry, wrinkled face is paused on screen.

“You made me come while Mary Berry was watching,” Laurence says. “That’s horrible.”

“Eh, she wouldn’t mind,” Damia replies. She’s got her two fingers in her mouth, licking them clean. Laurence shifts a little, tilting her head to watch her. “I just get that vibe, you know?”

“Apparently the horror is without end. Kiss me.”

Damia complies. It’s long and soft and slow, with the taste of Laurence between them and some lazy placement of hands. Eventually, held in Damia’s lap, Laurence says, “You’re falling asleep again.”

There’s scratching noises from down the hall, one dog or another chasing a rabbit in its sleep. The quilts have shifted mightily, leaving Laurence’s shoulders bare, but she doesn’t really feel the cold.

“Am not,” Damia mumbles, mouthing vaguely at Laurence’s jaw.

“You just snored on me. Come on, time for bed.”

Damia groans, and tightens her arms around Laurence, and relents. They stand, wrapping as many quilts around them as they can. “Oh, I think you did actually stain the couch a little,” Damia says, running a hand over the cushion.

Laurence considers this. “Run it under the tap. Or just flip it. I don’t particularly care.” She was a romantic fool before, the apartment is freezing.

Damia does care, though, as ever, and by the time she has stripped the cushion cover and run it under the tap and gently sponged it with a mild detergent mix, Laurence is in bed with her teeth brushed, buried under several feet of covers. She hisses when Damia lets the cold in.

“Yeah, yeah, you big baby,” Damia says, gathering Laurence up in her arms. There’s contented snoring from the foot of the bed, because Damia can’t stop Laurence from letting the dogs into the bedroom if she’s too busy googling how to get bodily fluids out of suede. They tangle their legs together.

“You really should tie me up in your office some time,” Damia sighs, her voice soft, as their breathing begins to mellow.

“Absolutely not,” Laurence replies. “...Maybe on a Saturday.”

“Mmm,” Damia hums, with her lips pressed to Laurence’s tufty hair. “Looking forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Lover's Day from TV on the Radio, the best song about having very fun sex ever written. i'm on twitter @[lambergeier](https://twitter.com/lambergeier/) and tumblr @[lambergeier](http://lambergeier.tumblr.com/). i have also never actually watched an episode of GBBO in my life, i'm very sorry.


End file.
